


Ambidextrous

by notsomagicath



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky remembers more than he thinks, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsomagicath/pseuds/notsomagicath
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Bucky has spent his waking moments with Steve’s  handwriting on his skin. It’s just something they’ve always shared with each other. Nowadays, Bucky’s left-handedness restricts him to his own right arm, but Steve, lucky bastard, covers both of his arms with sleeves of sketches and curved script.Ambidextrous. It’s a skill that Bucky doesn’t bother to learn, and refuses to try. Steve should have something to himself. After all, Bucky’s left arm is perfectly good. Why would he need to use the other?





	1. Best Friends Since Childhood

For as long as he can remember, Bucky has spent his waking moments with Steve’s  handwriting on his skin. It’s just something they’ve always shared with each other. When they were little, they would trade in messy drawings, splotchy ink, and strings of incoherent letters inelegantly spread out over as much skin as the two of them could feasibly cover. As they grew older, the spelling improved, the ink dried clean, and the drawings were mostly Steve’s, but Bucky never hesitated to caption each and every one of them. Nowadays, Bucky’s left-handedness restricts him to his own right arm, but Steve, lucky bastard, covers both of his arms with sleeves of sketches and curved script. 

_ Ambidextrous.  _ It’s a skill that Bucky doesn’t bother to learn, and refuses to try. Steve should have something to himself. After all, Bucky’s left arm is perfectly good. Why would he need to use the other?  _ Only if you wanted to show off, punk.  _ Bucky had said when the blonde had teased him about it.  _ Jerk. _ Steve had replied, but he couldn’t quite hide the satisfaction in his expression. 

Until one day, eleven-year-old Steve comes to school, shaken, mouth pressed in a firm line, and tells Bucky that they shouldn’t be using the marks anymore. 

“What are you talking about? We’ve been using them for years. What happened?” 

“My mother told me that they’re shameful, and that people didn’t talk about them or use them. She told me she wanted me to be safe.” 

“Did she tell you what they were?”

“No. She looked like she was about to cry, and I didn’t want to upset her more.” 

Steve seemed genuinely distressed at the thought of causing any grief for his mother. Bucky knew her to be wonderful, and it was apparent that Steve worshipped the ground she walked on. 

“Well, we’ll just keep using it in secret,” Steve’s lips twist, but he doesn’t protest, “And maybe we could do some research of our own, Stevie,” Bucky suggests, slinging an arm over his friend’s slim shoulders, “Then maybe we could figure out-“

“I don’t know, Buck. I think we should just let it be,” Steve cuts him off, his tone quiet but firm. 

Bucky knows better than to bring it up again. 

—————

The memory rushes back in when Bucky turns fifteen. The house is full to the bursting, with two little sisters and another on the way. For the first time in a while, he’s found a quiet corner of a room, but the space is already filled by his eleven year old sister Rebecca. She doesn’t shoo him away like usual, and instead pats the spot on the floor next to her, barely looking up from her book. 

“Same idea as me?” Bucky eases himself down onto the floorboards. 

“Mhm,” Becca hums in agreement, but doesn’t tear her eyes away from the page. 

A comfortable silence falls over the two of them, and Bucky is content to let the printed words blur together as he lets his eyes drift out of focus. After God knows how long, Becca speaks and her words are a cold bucket of water thrown over Bucky’s consciousness. 

“That’s Steve’s handwriting right? The one that appears on your arms.” 

His brain isn’t functioning fast enough for him to do anything but gape at her. 

“Don’t worry, mom hasn’t noticed or anything. She’s too busy with Ann to care. And little Ruth has apparently been kicking a lot more than usual this week.” 

“I- you-“ 

“I’m eleven, not stupid,” she stops his stuttering with a witheringly unimpressed look, “Anyway, how long have you known you’re soulmates?” 

“We’re what?” Bucky strings together his first somewhat coherent sentence of the conversation, and stares helplessly at his sister. 

“You’re- oh, James Buchanan Barnes, all this time did you have no idea what this was?” she gestures at the faded to-do list Steve had scribbled on his own arm after they parted ways from school. (Normally, they’d walk together, but Steve wanted to run errands for his mother, who was sick instead of him for once. Always the gentleman.) 

“No, Becca. We agreed not to talk about it anymore. Something about what Steve’s mother said,” Bucky says frustratedly through gritted teeth, combing his hands roughly through his hair.

“Here, let me show you,” Becca stands and pulls another book off the shelf, opening it flat in her lap so Bucky can read over her shoulder. She begins to read aloud. 

“ _ Soulmarks, though rare, are found through shared stains on skin, typically through ink. They appear when the soulmates are around the age of two or three, but the link is rarely realized before the age of five, if ever. Nevertheless, the marks are an indication of a pairing so strong that, should they come together, are joined at both the heart and soul. Such bonds should be cherished. _ ”

She closes the book with a finality that sounds like the lid of Bucky’s coffin nailing itself shut.  _ God, he can’t put something like this on Steve. He’s already got too much stress, and Steve doesn’t need to think he’s obligated to me.  _ And yet, the book confirms what Bucky’s suspected ever since he was thirteen.  _ I love him. I love him. I love him.  _

He places a hand on the top of Becca’s head to support him as he stands, and he hopes that the weight is enough to convey the barrage of emotion that threatens to knock him to the floor. Becca makes a soft noise in the back of her throat as if to say something, but she doesn’t stop him as Bucky’s feet carry him mindlessly out of the room. 

Later, as he stares up at the ceiling before bed, his heart clenches in his chest when Steve writes him goodnight. 

—————

“C’mon, Buck, just one more drink,” Steve slurs, his small frame leaning heavily against the bar, face flushed from the alcohol. 

“You’re such a lightweight, Stevie,” Bucky teases, before smiling indulgently and throwing back another shot. The little space between his eyebrows wrinkle when the whiskey burns its way down, and Steve reaches up, wide eyed, trying to smooth it out with the pad of his thumb. Bucky laughs through the blush that threatens to overtake his senses and dutifully writes another tally on his right arm, relishing in the identical mark that appears on Steve’s. 

“Hypocrite,” the blonde whines, noting Bucky’s clumsy grip on the pen, even in his own inebriated state. 

“Shhhh,” the taller man places a bold finger over Steve’s lips, “It’s my last night, and I’ll spend it however I want.” 

The mention of Bucky’s departure is enough to shock Steve into a semblance of sobriety. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go, Buck,” he says solemnly, placing a heavy hand on Bucky’s. It’s such a careless gesture of affection that it stuns him, but their hands remain still together on the bar. 

“Well, at least-“  _ at least I’m not staying home idle.  _ They both know how the sentence would end, and how the alcohol was the only reason that allowed even three words of it to rear its ugly head. Even so, even the knowledge that he had the capacity to even think it drips into a pool of guilt at his feet.  _ Is this how Steve will remember him?  _ “Fuck, I didn’t mean-“ 

“I know,” the blonde pauses, and the corner of his mouth tugs down slightly, something Bucky catches immediately and silently wishes would never happen again. Not if he could help it. 

He briefly entertains the idea of pressing their foreheads together and murmuring an apology mere inches from Steve’s lips, but he can’t. Not now. Not here. And especially if that’s not something Steve wants. But  _ God,  _ Bucky wants. More than anything. 

“Come on, Buck,” Steve grips his hand tighter and tugs him towards the dance floor with determined cheerfulness, “Let’s dance.” 

The floor is swarmed with people. The music is loud, but the crowd is louder, and Bucky is forced to shout to be heard over the noise. Not that he has much to say. He’s perfectly content to watch Steve dance, decidedly ungraceful, paying no mind to the swaying bodies he bumps into. Bucky is content to be pulled into the fray. 

They slowly push their way through, and Steve, any semblance of dignity stripped away by the alcohol, is dancing instead of walking. At least he would be if what he was doing could be called dancing. Now, Steve is many things, and graceful isn’t necessarily one of them, but something about the way his hips sway and the line of his waist when he turns back to grin at Bucky has the brunette completely transfixed. A slow smile is plastered on Steve’s face, and whenever the music came to a lyric he knew, his lips would fall open in a drunken attempt to sing along. Not that Bucky could hear a word of anything over the roar of the crowd. 

That explains how he’s managed to be pulled flush against Steve. It’s worth the assumption that he didn’t hear the warning. (Whether or not the warning was issued, it should have been, because things like this deserve a warning goddammit.) The room is filled with people, and the sheer amount of heat from each body is suffocating, even more so than it was mere seconds ago. But if he’s honest, Bucky couldn’t care less about the crowd. 

Even in the confined space, Steve twirls himself under Bucky’s arm and tugs him impossibly closer, taking his hand in an imitation of whatever the hell Bucky does whenever he takes out girl after girl to dance. To Bucky’s embarrassment, he seems to be just as affected as any of them, and he can’t suppress the flush that he knows has probably reached his ears by now. At this point, he may be struck by lightning and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. 

But somehow, he feels the shock of electricity down his spine when Steve reaches up and brushes the pad of his thumb over the curve of Bucky’s throat. Slowly tracing every edge, he draws a steady line to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and his blue eyes remain solemnly fixed on the taller man’s face. Bucky is stunned speechless for possibly the first time in his life. 

“You’re gorgeous, Buck,” Steve says, his breath ghosting over Bucky’s collarbone. 

Bucky may have stopped breathing. Hell, his heart may have given out on him.  _ Fuck. _

“Really,” Steve continues, carefully winding his fingers into Bucky’s hair, “God, the things I’ve wanted to do to you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Bucky manages to choke out, and a smile pulls at Steve’s lips.

“Jerk”

“P-”

The reply is cut off when Steve pulls Bucky down by the collar and kisses him full on the mouth. It tastes of whiskey and something so undeniably Steve that all the air is pulled from Bucky’s lungs. After a few seconds, Steve pulls away and smiles up at him, and Bucky wants to tattoo the look in his eyes onto the inside of his eyelids. However, the song change snaps him back into reality. 

_ Shit, what if someone saw.  _ His eyes scan the room rapidly, panic rising until it threatens to bubble over and drown every pleasant memory from tonight. The tension only releases from his shoulders once he realizes that everyone else in the bar is either engrossed in someone else or too drunk to function. But with Steve still staring at him, lips bruised pink, looking like  _ that _ , Bucky can’t take any chances, so he tugs him out of the building into the night air. 

They duck into an alleyway, one all to familiar to both of them. It’s the same one that Steve typically starts fights in, and the one where Bucky finishes them. But fighting is the last thing on Bucky’s mind when Steve allows one of his blinding grins to spread across his face.

“Steve, I-”

With that, Steve presses him into the brick wall and kisses him senseless. Bucky’s floating and the only things anchoring him to the ground are Steve’s mouth and his hands that roam over Steve’s back and rest on the back of his thighs, trying to coax more soft sounds out of him. 

Eventually, Bucky gains a fraction of coherence back and flips them, pressing a hand behind Steve’s head to make sure that the brick wall doesn’t cause a rather embarrassing concussion. Steve pulls away for a moment to smirk at him before sucking a mark onto Bucky’s collarbone, and a strangled noise pushes its way out of Bucky’s throat of its own accord. The satisfied smile on Steve’s face is nearly enough to allow Bucky to ascend to whatever heaven this is, but the sound of his coat falling to the ground after being hastily unbuttoned sounds like a cold blanket of guilt thrown over him. It takes almost all of his willpower to pull away, and the whine that Steve makes nearly reels him back in, but he steps back and closes his eyes, because he’ll never be able to do this while looking at him. 

Before he can get a word out, Steve speaks, and the words are a punch to the gut. 

“I love you.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before Steve repeats himself.

“I love you, Buck. I do. And I have to tell you before you leave.”

It’s everything Bucky’s wanted to hear for the last seven years and  _ fuck, _ it hurts. 

“I lo-”

“Steve,” Bucky cuts him off, “I can’t do this to you.”  _ I can’t be your soulmate when I go to war. I can’t promise to come back to you. I can’t hurt you. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.  _

“You-” Steve chokes, and for a moment he looks sober as a stone carving, “What-”

“I can’t do-” Bucky gestures between them, “this. I can’t hurt you. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean, Buck? Hurt me? How-”

“No, Steve, you don’t understand,” at this point, Bucky is pleading with him to just let him go, “I-”

“I think I understand just fine,” Steve stands straighter, and his voice is too flat, too monotone. Completely devoid of emotion, “It’s alright if you don’t love me, Buck,” his voice softens slightly, “I’m not going to force you to do anything. And you’re leaving tomorrow. Maybe it’s for the best,” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it, “We don’t ever have to mention this again, okay?”

“Steve, I-”

“No, Bucky, you don’t have to try to save my feelings this time. I can handle it.”

Without another word, Steve turns to walk out of the alleyway, and without thinking, Bucky reaches for him and pulls him closer to press three kisses to his face. One to his cheek, one to his jaw, one to his lips. Steve kisses him back, and they linger for a moment before Steve places two gentle hands on Bucky’s chest to push him away. 

“Don’t.”

  
  



	2. (In)separable

The blank space is jarring. To be fair, so is everything else, but the expanse of pale skin on his forearms is decidedly clean and inkless and overall wrong. Steve scratches lightly on his right arm where Bucky’s writing used to be. 

“Hey, are you ok?” Clint appears in the doorway, and he cautiously approaches Steve’s place on the couch in the tower’s living room. It’s been two weeks since he came out of cryo, and Clint is the easiest to talk to without being overwhelmed. 

“I’m alright,” Steve says, but the pitch of his voice lowers at the end of the last word, and Clint picks up on it immediately. 

“Overwhelmed?”

“Not this time, surprisingly,” they both laugh softly and fall into a comfortable silence for a few seconds, “I don’t know,” he pauses, “it’s just a little strange.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Well, the writing on my arm is gone.”

The casual words send a bolt of energy through Clint, whose spine immediately straightens. His eyes go wide and he quickly moves to sit across from Steve on the ottoman. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

“You never any of us that you had a soulmate.”

The word “soulmate” is like a bucket of water poured over his head, and the past tense is a plunge back into the ice. 

“What do you mean?” Steve is struggling to maintain his composure, but the information is coming together too quickly and his voice is shaking in a way that is impossible to ignore. 

“You didn’t know?” Clint asks, and the disbelief is even more evident when Steve only shakes his head, “They’re pretty rare, though nowadays you can have a procedure done for a lot of money to create a similar thing, but you get to choose your partner, so it’s not the same. There was a book written in the early thirties that gave some sort of explanation for the first time, and Rebecca Barnes wrote a treatise about it in the sixties. Dedicated it to her brother. Honestly, I’m surprised you never got your hands on it.”

“Do you remember it?” the mention of his first love’s sister is so much. Too much. But he needs to learn more. “Can you explain it to me?”

“Sure. I guess ‘soulmates’ is a bit too important to put on your list with Star Trek and Steve Jobs.”

“I don’t know, Tony insisted that Star Trek is extremely important,” he jokes.

“Very funny, Steve. Do you want the explanation or not?”

“Right. Go ahead, Clint.”

“Alright, so this isn’t going to be a super scientific or flowery explanation, but I’ll try my best. Basically, it’s a connection between two people, though some threes have been reported, that’s so strong that you essentially share a skin. Wait no. That sounds a lot more gross than it actually is. Okay I’m going to start this over.”

Steve laughs under his breath and Clint makes a face at him before continuing. 

“Here’s a better explanation I hope.” he begins by gesturing towards his wedding ring, ”When you get married, you’re supposed to be joined by hand and heart and all the clichés. But soulmates… even before they’re born… I know it sounds cheesy and like some kind of fairytale… but they’re joined at the  _ soul. _ And even before they meet there’s a thread that tethers them together and draws them back to each other, no matter what. It’s almost as if every pair of soulmates has their own gravitational pull and they orbit each other. One never strays far from the other. They-” Clint smiles sheepishly and stops, “I’m rambling again aren’t I?”

“No,” Steve reassures him, “I appreciate every word.”

After a beat, Steve registers that Clint has rolled up his sleeves and is tracing a grocery list on his left forearm, with hearts for bullet points and handwriting so neat that it may as well have been a font.

“Oh, you have a soulmate too?”

“Yeah, I do,” Clint grins at him, touching a fingertip to each heart before finishing the thought, “My wife, Laura.”

The unabashed happiness on Clint’s face resonates in Steve with a pang in his chest. In spite of having known him for less than a month, Steve knows that Clint of all people definitely deserves the kind of happiness that comes with having a soulmate. And yet, the archer is reminding him of everything he’s lost. 

_ How many times had he written on his himself and never known? How long? How much time had he wasted absently doodling on himself, blissfully oblivious to the truth. And Bucky’s sister wrote a treatise. And dedicated it to Bucky. Oh God, he must have known. How long did he know? How long did he keep that to himself?  _

There’s too many questions, and absolutely no answers. And there won’t be. Not when the one person who could answer them is dead. 

Clint’s years of reading people seems to pick up on all of it. Is the pain really that blatantly visible on his face? 

“Steve, I- I’m so sorry, I…” Clint rolls his sleeves down again and fiddles with a stray thread at the cuffs, “It’s insensitive of me to bring up my soulmate when… when… you’re not getting ink anymore.” 

“No,” Steve chokes out, “Clint… Thank you for showing me. It’s a privilege to witness someone else’s joy. Really.” 

Clint remains silent, and places a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“Do you want to… talk about yours?”

“Yeah,” the beginnings of a watery smile tugs at Steve’s lips, “I’d like that.”

Clint smiles and gestures for him to begin whenever he’s ready, and it only takes a deep breath and then he’s off. God knows it never used to take prompting for him to talk about Bucky. Then why is it to hard to say it out loud? 

“My soulmate was… is… James Buchanan Barnes. Everyone always called him Bucky.” 

Steve gives Clint a moment to absorb this. Ten seconds to place his name. Five to remember the information in the museum. Another ten to remember how Steve lost him. And a generous fifteen just to recover. 

“We were friends for as long as I can remember… and I can’t remember a time where we didn’t write to each other. Or even before we could write sentences, my first masterpieces were on Bucky’s skin.  _ God,  _ I loved him _...  _ It’s part of the reason I haven’t drawn ever since I woke up. My favorite canvas has always been my skin because then I get to share my work with someone else. But now… it’s like leaving a voicemail to the dead. I’ve heard about people doing it as a coping mechanism, but… I’m supposed to have had seventy years to get used to it.”

“You were in cryo,” Clint says gently, “You weren’t even conscious, much less able to mourn.” 

“I guess…” Steve pauses and traces over the skin on the inside of his right arm, “I don’t know. Cryo numbed my thoughts as much as my physical self, and I wonder if drawing again would light a match and melt whatever’s keeping all that locked up. Maybe avoiding it prevents the fallout. I think… I almost don’t want to know what I’m like completely thawed without him.” 

Clint seems to be at a loss for words. And that’s alright. Steve doubts that there’s any way to properly respond to something like that. They don’t speak again, but the reassuring silence is enough. 

\----------

His skin remains unmarked for the next three years. Slowly, he finds solace in knowing that at least Bucky never had to experience the loss of his soulmate. And then he hates himself for it. 

_ Imagine the pain he’d be in, especially with Bucky’s ever-present protectiveness. What kind of torture is being pulled from this world knowing you left your soulmate in it? No,  _ he thinks,  _ it seems that neither of them got the good end of the bargain. As if there’s any possible good in tearing them apart.  _

As difficult as it is, Steve is slowly moving on. He’s never going to forget, but there’s no use longing for what isn’t going to be there. 

He throws himself into missions. He helps save New York from Loki and the chitauri. He tears apart one HYDRA base after the other. He babysits for Clint and allows Bruce and Tony to test who knows what on him. (The results are mixed. The kids like him third to Natasha and Bruce, he’s learned to bring shawarma for Tony and Chinese takeout in the unlikely event he gets a warning before being summoned to the lab. If Tony asks you to step into a chamber and laughs as he closes the door, it’s good to remember that he hasn’t signed away his rights to leave. Being covered in silly string is less than ideal.)

The latest of Tony’s pranks has him covered head to toe in red white and blue stripes.  _ Very patriotic,  _ had been Natasha’s only comment on the entire thing. 

Well, it seems that his shower is going to be  _ very patriotic  _ for the next week. 

As he scrubs at his legs, he internally slaps himself for agreeing to step into the chamber. You’d think he’d have learned by now. But to be fair, Bruce had been the one to tell him to do it, and Tony had kept a remarkably straight face, even as he told Steve he needed to be naked for it to work. Even JARVIS had betrayed him by allowing Tony to call the rest of the team in, practically crying with laughter. See if he’ll bring food for the two lab rats at midnight ever again. 

Even so, as the colors run purple down the drain, he laughs to himself at the memory of the absolutely scandalized look on Clint’s face when he’d witnessed the colorful nightmare that was Steve’s completely nude self standing, cringing at his own naivety, still transferring red white and blue footprints on the normally immaculate lab floors.  _ This _ close to strangling Tony on the spot, regardless of present condition. 

He mindlessly scrubs at the inside of his left forearm, his right one being already clean. He always starts with it, and every time he almost expects to see Bucky’s upright obnoxiously typewriter-like handwriting appear on his skin.

When the sharp lines of black ink appear, the pit of his stomach drops through the floor. When they don’t scrub themselves away with the paint, the floor tips under Steve’s feet. He instinctively grips onto the rod holding up the shower curtain, because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to stay on his feet. Not when his knees have completely given out on him. 

Of course, the thin metal rod, no matter how sturdy, isn’t meant to hold the weight of a supersoldier. He finds himself on the floor of the shower, sprawled inelegantly, shaking rapidly, the spray of the shower still drenching his face. 

“Captain Rogers, would you like me to call for help?” JARVIS’ voice echoes calmly through the bathroom.

“No,” Steve inhales some of the water and coughs, “Could you please turn the shower off?” 

“Certainly,” the water stops abruptly with a click, “Is there any way I can be of any assistance?” 

“No… no,” Steve repeats, “Thank you, Jarvis.” 

“My pleasure, Captain.” 

With that, Steve is alone again. 

He registers the pain a few seconds after noticing how tightly he’s gripping his arm, and when he pulls away, there’s a red handprint left on his left forearm, the marks of his fingers stretching over the ink. Immediately, the urge to read it, over and over, seizes him, but the effort is futile. 

The language is definitely Russian, and the handwriting is distinctly not Bucky’s. It couldn’t have been, anyway. Bucky was left handed after all. Миссия: уничтожить цель и убрать всех свидетелей. The lettering is done carelessly, all harsh edges and smeared ink. So different from the meticulous script that Bucky favored.  _ But then, who wrote this?  _

The thought is immediately is shoved into the back of his mind in favor of the storm of grief, shock, and love that threatens to swallow him whole. 

_ He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.  _

The words repeat themselves over and over in his head like a prayer. 

Steve stands, nearly slipping in his haste to get to his nightstand. He runs, not bothering with a towel, and yanks open the drawer, and closes his hand around the first writing tool he can find, one of his extremely expensive Copic pens. Lacking the usual care he takes with the delicate pen, he turns over his left arm and writes back underneath it, cradling the limb and shaking uncontrollably. 

_ Bucky.  _

\----------

_ Bucky.  _

The word appears, blocked into slightly by the cyborg plates that are placed up and down the asset’s arm. The arm had been mostly salvaged after the fall, and HYDRA hadn’t felt the need to fully replace it, though they had a spare just in case. The handler barks at the agent standing in the doorway. The dark-suited man walks slowly towards where the asset is strapped to the seat, and his eyes widen when his gaze lands on the mark. 

_ So, the asset has a living soulmate.  _

HYDRA had assumed that the issue of soulmarks wouldn’t be an issue. Being from the forties, they had only had to consider a soulmate for another fifty years or so before the possibility of one became nothing but a distant memory. Besides, soulmates were rare. What’s the likelihood of a random single individual having one? 

_ Very likely, apparently.  _

The agent frowns. What is the best way to get rid of a soulmark? They won’t come off until the soulmate that placed it there removes it, and something tells him that this mark won’t be erased anytime soon. 

_ Well,  _ he thinks,  _ we could always remove the arm. The soulmate is right handed, so that would solve the issue of communication, and the asset wouldn’t have the opportunity to be set off by it. Besides, the training had made the asset capable with both hands, though,  _ he muses,  _ the asset had provided some unexpected opposition at that portion of the training. The oddity of ambidexterity, _ he supposes. 

“отрезать руку.”  _ Cut off the arm,  _ he says. 

“но сэр-“  _ But sir,  _ the handler protests. 

“следовать вашему заказу.”  _ Follow your order.  _

The handler only nods grimly before placing the bit in the asset’s mouth and injecting his left shoulder with a dull anesthetic.  _ It’s a pity that he must suffer through this _ . 

The asset’s screams are drowned out by the screech of the circular saw. 

\----------

When his mask falls to the ground, the asset doesn’t bother picking it up. It’s not necessary in any fight, especially not this one. His instructions said that there’s no need to protect if his identity if there’s no witnesses, and, chances are, there won’t be any. 

The devastation on the target’s face is unexpected. 

Though he knows that his face remains expressionless, just as he’d been taught, somehow there’s a piece of himself reflected in the soldier’s eyes. Something about him tugs the air slowly from his lungs, and the way he’s looking at the asset, with softened eyes and unspoken words caught on his lips, causes something inside him to ache. 

_ Have I loved you before?  _ the words fall gracefully from nowhere,  _ Would I have loved you now?  _ the asset shakes his head and glances down at the metal of his prosthetic left arm,  _ Whoever he is, he’s lost the opportunity to love him with both his hands.  _

“Bucky?” 

The first word out of the target’s lips sends a bolt of recognition through him.  _ But why? _ There’s no memory tied to the name. There’s no memory tied to anything, but this emptiness is increasingly more frustrating. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” 

\----------

The Smithsonian is quiet. On any other day but today, the silence would be appreciated, but today? Today he longs for the noise. Anything to distract him from the voices in his head. Or maybe just one in particular. 

_ I’m with you till the end of the line. _

_ Steve, I can’t do this to you.  _

_ Who the hell is Bucky?  _

The voice only grows louder as Steve reaches his exhibit and his eyes land on Bucky’s portrait. The video that’s normally running is off, but he can still hear it. 

_ No. No. No. No. _

Steve sprints for the display and yanks his old suit from the mannequin. 

_ Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.  _

If only they knew. 

  
  



	3. Schoolyard, Battlefield, and Everywhere In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month since I updated this... and the last chapter too... I'm so sorry it took this long, but I hope you enjoy!

Steve opens his eyes, and blinks in the cold bright lights of the antechamber. Just through the set of double doors, Bucky is talking to Shuri and T’Challa about the options that he has, at least as many as they can foresee for his indefinite stay in Wakanda. What Steve wouldn’t give to be in that room with him. 

_ No, this is something Bucky needs to do by himself. He should be able to make his own decision, without worrying about what Steve wants. He’s spent years catering to Steve’s needs, and it’s time for him to return the favor.  _

__ “Captain Rogers?” Shuri calls from the doorway, “Mr. Barnes would like to see you.”

Steve immediately stands bolt upright and runs for the doors, coming to a screeching halt when he realizes exactly how strange he looks. And he’s pretty sure he’s blushing to his ears when Shuri shoots him a knowing glance, holding the door grandly with an amused expression on her face. 

“After you, Captain Rogers.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before stepping through.

The room is distinctly warmer than the rest of the palace, probably to offset the residual cold air of the cryo chamber. And yet, the moment it hits him that he’s breathing the same air as Bucky, a chill goes down his spine and an involuntary shiver trembles through his entire body. 

Without thinking, he searches for Bucky, and a knot in his abdomen tightens and loosens with every heartbeat. A rhythm that stops entirely when the two  _ lock eyes.  _

Steely blue merges with sky and Bucky stands, bearing unsteady, the pent-up longing of seven decades seeping into the air and suffocating him, but somehow Steve can’t imagine breathing without it. Maybe it’s because Bucky is the air he breathes, and he always has been. Always will be. 

Bucky grows larger in Steve’s vision and his feet are carrying him fast, sprinting the short distance across the lab. The two collide like supernovas caught in each other’s gravity and the explosion engulfs the click of the door as the room empties save the two of them.

 It’s impossible to tell whose it is, but a choked sob echoes through the empty room, and both men clutch each other tighter. 

Steve’s upper arms are draped over Bucky’s shoulders and his hands find themselves in Bucky’s hair as if he’s the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. Bucky’s hands are everywhere, tugging Steve harder against him, on his arms, his hair, the back of his thighs, and up and down his back. 

“Buck I-”

“Missed you too, Stevie.”

Bucky always knows what Steve’s thinking, and he always knows what to say. The knowledge is so familiar that Steve shakes in Bucky’s arms and buries his face in his neck. He can’t help but press his lips to Bucky’s shoulder, and as soon as he realizes what he did, he draws back, an apology ready to spill over his lips. 

“No, don’t.” Bucky says hoarsely, and he kisses the skin underneath Steve’s ear, relaxing completely in his arms. 

A full body shudder resonates through Steve’s body and Bucky pulls Steve closer.

The moment is everything that the two of them had missed in the years they’ve been apart, but this reunion is a homecoming that isn’t built to last. 

“What did Shuri and T’Challa say?”

Bucky stares up at him for a moment, and to anyone else, his expression is entirely fatigue, but Steve catches the hint of surprise, which is gone half a second after it arrives. 

“They gave me a few options, but…” his gaze softens.

“You’re going back under,” Steve finishes. It’s not the answer he wants, but he knows it’s the right one.

“Yeah…” Bucky sighs, “I don’t know my own mind, not completely. And they don’t have a way to fix that just yet, and I guess… it’s better for everyone if I go back under until they do.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.”

The two of them walk over towards the window, staring out into the Wakandan landscape, and Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of it. 

“I said a moment ago that I don’t fully know my own mind, but there’s one thing I’m completely sure of.”

Steve smiles at him and hopes that it’s enough to tell him everything he’s been holding back ever since the ink reappeared on his skin. 

“I love you, Steve, I have since we were naive teenagers in the forties,” Bucky’s grip has tightened on Steve’s hand, and his previously steady voice is wavering, “and I know I never told you, and I know that I pushed you away when you told me you loved me, and I don’t know if you still do, and I know I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve you… and I know I’m about to leave you again… but I can’t last another minute without telling you.”

Steve takes a hold of Bucky’s waist with one hand and pulls the other out of Bucky’s to wind his fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. 

He gently takes Bucky’s face in his hands before tilting his chin down and placing their first kiss in seventy years delicately onto his lips. 

After a few seconds, Steve pulls away and presses their foreheads together. 

“We really have the worst timing, don’t we?”

“We really do.”

_ The worst timing for so many reasons. The worst time to come back to each other when one has to leave again. The worst time to know that they’re soulmates. The worst time to hold on.  _

“I’ll see you soon, right?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. 

\----------

_ “Come on, Steve, we have to get out of here,” Bucky keeps a tight hold on Steve’s collar and attempts to drag him away from the schoolyard’s fence.  _

_ “No, Buck, let go of me,” Steve strains against his grip, cut lip and bruised knuckles courtesy of the irritatingly thick skull of Richard Elsner.  _

_ “Yeah, Barnes, let go of him,” mocks Richard, bouncing back and forth on the tips of his toes, a cruel mimicry of Steve’s fragile fighting stance.  _

_ “Shut the fuck up, Elsner, or I’ll make your brain turn in your skull,” Bucky snaps over his shoulder, not fully taking his eyes off of Steve.  _

_ The older boy shuts his mouth, but definitely isn’t happy about it. The look in his eyes promises a thousand slow deaths for Steve as soon as Bucky gets out of hearing range. As if Bucky would let him out of his sight after this. Bucky refuses to see him get hurt. Not when he can help it. A firm hand on his shoulder, Bucky pulls Steve aside, hiding them from view behind the largest oak tree on the block.  _

_ “What were you thinking?” _

_ “You should have heard the things he said about you, Buck. Said you were a…” Steve trails off, and winces. _

_ “I was a what?” _

_ “I won’t say the word he used.”  _

_ “It doesn’t matter what he said, Stevie. You don’t need to fight for me.” _

_ “Neither do you. And you didn’t hear him.” _

_ “I’ll hear it from you. Just spit it out.” _

_ “HEY ROGERS, WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG? YOU AND BARNES GETTING IT ON?” Richard calls, crowing with laughter. A few lingering students that had witnessed their brief scuffle chuckle behind their hands.  _

_ Steve flushes a bright red and opens his mouth to yell some form of denial, but Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth and calmly emerges from behind the trunk. A sickly sweet half-smile plays at his lips as he strides over to where Elsner was standing, surrounded by a few of their classmates. Steve watches with dark anticipation pooling in his gut, and takes some satisfaction in the fact that Bucky is a good five inches taller than the other boy, though nineteen year old Elsner is three years his senior.  _

_ “What did you say, Elsner?” _

_ “I asked if you were fucking Rogers behind the tree,” the boy says, a smirk playing at his lips and an expression that barely conceals the flash of fear in his eyes. _

_ “And what makes you think that you have the right to say something like that,” Bucky places his right hand on the boy’s shoulder, right over where his collarbone sits, the lightest of pressure that promises to incapacitate him with a single press to the pressure point.  _

_ “Because it’s common knowledge you’re head over heels for Rogers,” Elsner says, a hint of a triumphant attitude creeping into his words, “You hear that, Barnes? We all know you’re nothing but a dirty fa-” _

_ The rest of the word drowns in blood when Bucky punches him so hard in the mouth that the sickening crack of bone resonates all the way to where Steve is standing, thirty feet away. The blonde can only watch in horror as Bucky reels back for a second punch that certainly breaks Elsner’s nose and sends the older boy sprawling into the grass.  _

_ Before he can even register himself moving, Steve is behind Bucky, arms wrapped around him tightly, and he knows that he can’t contain him, but fuck it, he’s going to try. To his utter shock and surprise, Bucky slumps forwards and is pliant in his grip. Steve can’t waste time wondering why, and tries his best to tug his best friend away, and Bucky goes, but not without spitting in Elsner’s face.  _

_ They walk home in complete silence, Steve because his split lip threatens to bleed again at any moment, and Bucky because he seems to entertain the idea of going back and beating Elsner into a bloody pulp, and if he said it out loud, Steve wouldn’t be able to stop him. Steve knows full well that Bucky hates disappointing him.   _

_ They arrive at the Rogers family’s front door, and Bucky raises an eyebrow in question. _

_ “I figured we’d rather not go back to your house right now,” Steve says sheepishly, “Your sisters would ask too many questions about this,” he gestures towards his split lip and the darkening bruises scattered over his arms.  _

_ “You’re right,” Bucky breathes, “You always are.” _

_ “Oh, shut up,” Steve chides, but the slight flush to his cheeks and smile tugging at the corner of his mouth don’t lie.  _

\----------

As soon as he steps out of the quinjet, Steve looks for Bucky. It’s an irrational impulse, and he knows full well that recovery, especially from an experience as traumatic as Bucky’s, is a slow and non-linear process, so to expect him to be in a steady enough place to fight, especially in a battle of this proportion, should be an unreasonable request. 

The team approaches the Wakandan palace, and is greeted by the royal family, T’Challa’s expression grimly aware of the consequences of what he’s about to undertake, and Shuri equally concerned, but with the suppressed adrenaline of finally getting to use her inventions. 

“Seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” Steve says, shaking the king’s hand, willing his face to stillness when Bruce bows and T’Challa lets him know that it’s not a custom they use here. 

“So how big of an assault should we expect?”

“Uh, sir, I think you should expect quite a big assault,” Bruce cuts in.

“How we looking?” Nat asks. 

T’Challa lists off the many tribes and variations of palace guards that they should expect, and Steve nods along to each one, already calculating the strategic adjustments he would make with the different sizes of the groups. He stares straight ahead, not truly looking where he’s going. 

“And-” the king gestures to their left. 

“A semi-stable hundred-year-old man.” 

Steve’s heart may have stopped entirely. He steps forward, an uncontrollable grin tugging at his lips, to take Bucky into his arms. There’s too many people here to say every thought that’s rushing through his head. Because they never seem to be able to get this right. Because if he thought that the last time was bad timing, this completely blows it out of the water. Because he shouldn’t mention any of this when for all he knows, they’re both going to die. 

_ But maybe that’s the best reason to tell him you know.  _

Steve tightens his grip on Bucky. 

_ No, he’s not selfish enough to tell him now. Later,  _ he promises himself,  _ when all this is over.  _

Instead, he tries out the most mundane phrase that comes to mind.

“How’re you doing, Buck?” Steve steps back, letting his hands shift from around the man’s shoulders to his elbows. 

“Pretty good, for the end of the world.”

The response is so  _ Bucky _ that Steve tugs him back into a hug, burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

\----------

Bucky thinks that maybe, against all odds, they finally got this right. The Wakandan forest has gone quiet, even the sounds of wildlife completely silenced. He exhales for what feels like the first time in the last two days. 

_ I could tell him,  _ Bucky realizes, with a sharp inhale that he’s nearly positive carries through the stillness.  _ The world’s no longer about to collapse, and they’d have as long as they need to sort everything out. For the first time in their lives, they’d have time.  _

Any blossoming hope, however, goes cold once he spots two figures on the hill, exactly in the spot Thanos used to be. 

Thor’s red cape is unmistakable, and even from a distance, the stunned look on his face is glaringly obvious. Steve, ever the observant one, approaches him, but he’s turned away, so Bucky can’t tell exactly what he’s saying. Steve’s shaking his head, then nodding, then gesturing at Thor, but the Asgardian’s eyes remain fixed on the same spot where Stormbreaker had fallen into the grass. 

Without thinking, Bucky’s feet carry him towards them, specifically towards the closest figure on the ridge.  _ He always finds himself walking towards Steve.  _

He takes a few steps before he looks down at his metal arm and sees his vibranium fingertips turning to dust. Bucky is completely frozen in place until he hears the gun in what used to be his right hand drop to the dirt. 

_ No, no, no, we finally had time.  _

“Steve…”

The devastation on Steve’s face, the most bleak he’s ever seen him since the day he recognized him on the bridge, is the last thing Bucky sees before his world fades to black. 

\----------

_ Bucky walks into their shared tent to find Steve languidly stretched over both their sleeping bags, still in his Captain America costume.  _

_ “It’s been two hours since the show, Steve. I didn’t realize you were so attached to that outfit,” he teases, poking Steve’s side with the toe of his boot.  _

_ “Noooooo don’t stain it,” whines Steve, “I don’t wanna wash it and I’m too tired to mooove…” _

_ “You’re getting my sleeping bag all sweaty,” Bucky protests, bending down to push Steve with both hands, “Punk.” _

_ “Jerk.” _

_ Bucky attempts to clumsily tug Steve onto the ground, but with the super soldier serum, it’s much more difficult than it used to be. Especially now that Steve’s strong enough to take a hold of Bucky’s wrists and pull him down with him, which, of course, he does, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and rolling on top of him to hold him to the floor of the tent.  _

_ “If you’re going to make fun of me for being sweaty, you’re going to suffer with me,” Steve says through gritted teeth, struggling to keep Bucky still on the ground.  _

_ “Never!” crows Bucky, flipping them over and barely managing to press Steve onto his back, straddling his waist and holding his hands beside his head.  _

_ “I thought you wanted to keep the sleeping bags clean.”  _

_ “Well that was before you decided to be such a punk.” _

_ “Jerk.”  _

_ They both laugh softly, until they come to the mutual realization of how close their faces are. Bucky is pretty sure he’s stopped breathing, and Steve’s chest rises and falls harshly, his lips parted in a way that Bucky tries to convince himself isn’t enticing. Of course, it doesn’t work. It never has. _

_ Honestly, why does he even bother trying? He knows full well that any attempt to suppress his feelings for Steve will only serve to turn him into an even bigger mess than he already is.  _

_ Bucky nearly unravels entirely when Steve bends his leg at the knee just-so, and Bucky brushes against the top of Steve’s thigh.  _

_ “Tell me no,” Steve says, almost pleading with Bucky to let him go, but even as the words leave him, Steve lifts his head, so close that their lips would brush if one of them shifted even the slightest bit.  _

_ This is a terrible idea, and Bucky is well aware. But- _

_ “I can’t,” he chokes out, letting go of Steve’s hands and bracketing Steve’s head between his forearms as he holds himself above him.  _

_ “Stop me,” Steve murmurs as his leg inches farther up and his hands drift to the hem of Bucky’s uniform shirt.  _

_ “I-“ Bucky’s thighs shake with the force of keeping his hips still. _

_ “This can’t happen,” Steve whispers, and Bucky knows exactly what he means. Love doesn’t survive on a battlefield. Not when two people are a larger target than one.  _

_ “It won’t.” Bucky pushes up slightly to reach and pull Steve’s hand under his shirt, allowing him to reach the slip of skin above his hips.  _

_ Steve freezes. Well, that’s not exactly true. His fingertips continue to make slow circles on the curve of Bucky’s waist, but his entire spine has gone rigid. For the first time, Bucky is terrified that Steve doesn’t know what he means.  _

_ “Just this,” he breathes, intertwining their fingers and placing Steve’s hands high on his back and chest, and when Steve shudders at the touch, Bucky allows his hips to stutter down to meet him. In the depths of his own mind, he begs Steve to understand. And at the same time, he wishes that for once, Steve would just let him be a code he can’t decipher.  _

_ “Just this,” Steve repeats, and covers Bucky’s mouth with his own.  _

_ Bucky wonders if “just this” will ever be enough, but tonight he holds on with all he has and lets himself fall as Steve takes him apart.  _

—————

The last thing he expected was to return to battle the minute he returns from dust. 

Scratch that, the last thing he expected was to return at all. 

But there’s no time to think, no time to wonder what happened. There’s only the barely-processed knowledge that they missed five years and that the time has come to make sure they don’t make the same mistakes twice. 

So Bucky holds his breath and jumps through golden sparks of the portal. 

It’s certainly not the New York he knows. There ground is buried under an unfathomable amount of rubble, and there’s smoke and ash rising and falling in the air. He doesn’t have time to look around before one of the Outriders is upon him. 

It closes its jaws around his left arm, and he’s never been more glad that it’s metal. And that he’s equally capable with both hands (though there’s still a little part of him that clings to his left-handedness for Steve’s sake). He fires off a barrage of bullets from his gun into the one on top of him, and manages to hit a few more coming at him. 

Soon enough, he falls into the rhythm of combat and throws himself into the fray. 

Time gets lost during battle, and especially when Bucky’s mind is convinced he fought this exact same threat not too long ago.

_ Five years, _ his brain reminds him,  _ you’ve been gone for five years. Steve has had to live without his soulmate for five years.  _ As he stabs another creature in the leg as a wave of guilt washes over him.  _ You left him for decades, and now you were gone when the world was falling apart. What are the chances?  _ Very likely, unfortunately.

Turn and slash, shoot and dodge. Turn, slash, shoot, dodge. Turn, slash, shoot, dodge. 

Suddenly, a deafening explosion from above interrupts his swing, and he reflexively looks up to see Thanos’ ship in ruins, and a glowing, blonde-haired woman floating triumphantly behind it. The glare is blinding, his vision going white for a moment, and he panics, swinging around him in case the next wave of Outriders were threatening to swamp him, but when his vision clears, he drops his knife in relief. Everywhere around him, Thanos’ army is falling apart, some of them literally. The dying screams of the creatures fills the air as the last of them collapse to the ground. 

And a few minutes later, an ear-shattering snap echoes through the air. 

_ Not again, not again, not again.  _

And with that, Thanos is  _ gone.  _

\----------

New York has never been this quiet before. 

There’s a few fire alerts in the distance, a few car alarms, a few police car sirens, but it feels as if the world is exhaling for the first time in five years. 

Bucky’s first thought is  _ where is Steve?  _

That’s the funny thing about love. He thinks of Steve first and the rest of the world can wait. 

But then he sees the group crouched over a suit of armor on the ground. No, not just a suit. Tony Stark is lying against a pile of rubble, smiling up at his wife, with an extra glance towards young Peter Parker. Bucky barely gets close enough to see his face before he watches the Iron Man take his last breath. 

He can’t intrude on this moment, not when Steve is orbiting around their inner circle, Mjolnir strapped to his belt, and a stunned expression in his face. 

It’s a level of grief that he can’t possibly imagine, and he knows full well that reuniting with Steve now would add another emotion for Steve to process. And he’s already had to go through so much. 

It takes every bit of his will, but Bucky turns and walks away. 

\----------

Steve is straightening his black tie in his room when he sees him again. 

He hears the footsteps coming down the hall, and he hears the door creak open. Even still, he doesn’t turn around until the unmistakable figure of James Buchanan Barnes slips into the reflection of the mirror. 

Steve doesn’t bother finishing the knot of his tie as he instinctively reaches out for his best friend.  _ His-  _

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to call him. Bucky is everything.  _ Best friend. Soulmate. First love. Last love.  _

Instead, Steve doesn’t call him anything and just reaches for him, and Bucky doesn’t need the words. 

Unlike their first reunion, their embrace isn’t flashes of lightning and the crash of cymbals and timpani drums. This one is soft, laced with thunder and the low hum of an orchestra. 

Steve slides his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, one hand slipping into his hair, the other clinging to the back of Bucky’s black leather jacket. He tucks his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck and lets out his first cry since the final battle. 

Bucky slips one arm around Steve’s waist and places his other hand on the back of his neck, brushing his fingers lightly over his spine and twisting a few strands from the nape of his neck around his fingers. 

“Shhhhh, I’m here,” he whispers, pulling Steve closer, “I’m here. Let it out. I’m here. Let it out.”

Steve wants to say so many things, but all he manages is another sob. Ever understanding, Bucky lets him cry, and whispers soothing nothings into his ear and holding him flush against him. 

After a few minutes, Bucky draws back slightly, not letting go, and presses his lips to Steve’s temple. Steve’s eyes drift open, and Bucky is staring back at him with a soft smile and such complete sympathy that Steve sniffs and nearly crumples, but he just tightens his hold on the back of Bucky’s jacket and lets himself enjoy the moment for what it is. 

Agonizingly slow, Bucky tilts his head up to press kisses all over Steve’s face. His forehead, his temple, his cheek, his jaw, and the sensitive spot just below his ear. Bucky lifts his hands to cradle Steve’s face, brushing the pads of his thumbs over his cheekbones and wiping the tear tracks from his face before barely brushing his lips over the corner of Steve’s lips. 

“It’s time to go, my love,” Bucky says, “We can’t keep waiting.” 

“I know,” Steve replies hoarsely, reaching up to kiss him full on the mouth, lingering there for a moment before stepping away, intertwining their hands. 

Bucky presses his lips to the side of his palm and heat tugs at Steve’s heart at the touch, and together, they walk outside to say goodbye to Earth’s best defender. 

\----------

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Bucky pushes up onto his tiptoes to kiss Steve goodbye before squeezing his hand and walking with him towards the quantum transporter. 

Bruce debriefs Steve quickly on the basics of the mission, and reassures Sam and Bucky that he will be back in exactly five seconds. 

Honestly, with the stakes of this trip, Bucky would rather not think about it. He’d even forced Steve to go over a contingency plan with him the night before, just in case- 

Again, he doesn’t like to think about it. 

But the thing is, there’s one more topic that he does want to think about. Neither of them have written on themselves since everyone returned. Bucky is certain that they both know, and neither of them are going to dispute the claim. The only thing standing in their way is this last mission. The last hitch in their future. 

_ Their future.  _

The words are something Bucky never thought he’d associate with Steve. He never thought he’d have the chance, both in the forties and the world they live in now. 

“Alright,” Bruce announces, “We’re ready.” 

Steve picks up the briefcase and twirls Mjolnir in his grasp with a wink at Bucky.

_ Punk, _ Bucky thinks, raising an eyebrow.

_ Jerk.  _ Steve’s eyes convey his answer. 

 “Going quantum in,” Bruce counts down, “3… 2… 1…”

The machines roar to life and Steve is gone. 

“Coming back in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”

The lights flash and Steve isn’t on the platform. 

_ No, no, no. What happened? Where is he? _

All of a sudden, someone places their hands on both Bucky’s shoulders.

“SURPRISE.”

Bucky instinctively whips around and nearly decapitates a very-much-unharmed Steve. 

“You- you’re-” he sputters as the blonde laughs hysterically, “You’re  _ such _ and ASSHOLE.” 

“I couldn’t help myself,” Steve says, but when he reads the shock on Bucky’s face, he pulls him close to kiss him breathless as an apology. 

After he pulls himself away with a few more pecks on the lips and all over his face, Steve uncaps a marker that Bucky hadn’t realized was in his belt, and scribbles on his arm. 

_ I would never leave my soulmate behind.  _

Bucky’s breath catches and he’s pretty sure his heart has given out on him. He yanks the marker out of Steve’s hands and resolutely uses his left arm out of some long-established habit to write back. 

_ I love you, but you’re still a punk.  _

_ Jerk. _

They stand there, grinning like idiots, until Sam’s voice breaks the silence.

“Look, lovebirds, I’m sorry to ruin the moment but what the FUCK is this???”

The pair turn around and see Sam holding Captain America’s shield in his hands, wrapped in an obnoxiously large bow, and the words  _ FOR SAM, ON YOUR LEFT  _ written in block letters on the ribbon _. _

Steve only gestures mutely and shrugs as Sam struggles to compose a coherent sentence. 

“You’re such a punk,” Bucky repeats for the third time that day, “But that was perfect.”

“Just like you,” Steve says, in the sappiest voice possible, “Jerk.” 

Bucky takes Steve’s face in both his hands and silently thanks the universe for finally giving them time. 

_ Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.  _

It couldn’t be more true. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If you want to come say hi, you can find me @youve-cath-to-be-kitten-me on Tumblr!


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